


that joke isn't funny anymore.

by yotsu8a



Series: extensions [1]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Pre-Slash, baby's first fic in fucking years, general sadness, i love the yotsuba group so much, lots of guilt, shim gets comforted by a coworker in his car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 12:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yotsu8a/pseuds/yotsu8a
Summary: In which the six surviving conspirators actually survive, for better or worse.





	that joke isn't funny anymore.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been driving. It could have been hours, for all he knew, or only a handful of minutes — but the sky was the same unforgiving black as it had been when they had departed from the bar, frantic and reeling, his own frame still tense from the weight of the encounter. As far away from the bar as possible — he didn’t care _where_ , so long as he never had to look at Namikawa Reiji’s face again in his life.

(A futile wish; on Monday, he would drive back to work in the morning and go about his day, breathing the same air as the object of his frustrations. They would exchange brief words at some meeting or other — it was inescapable. If he thought about it any longer, it would make him sick.)

If he’d had any say in the matter, he wouldn’t have agreed to join him in the first place, but what choice had there been? It had been more than half a year since the death of their resident murderer, more than half a year since he had come to realize that Namikawa Reiji made him sick to his stomach, and still, the man had continued to pursue _something_ with him — something _more_ than the sick knowledge they shared with the other four surviving conspirators. Apparently, he hadn’t made his disgust clear enough; then again, he had always been a pushover.

Still, even a pushover could only stand so much; he had agreed to a single, brief outing, a final end to whatever misconceptions Namikawa had convinced himself to be true.

It went about as well as one could expect.

Shimura brought the car to a halt in an empty parking lot, flanked by buildings he couldn’t care enough to remember the names of. He had become unaware of the heaviness of his own breathing, the stiff panic that just barely supported his despairing frame, the shaking that had spread its way through his hands. As soon as all was still, however, his posture collapsed into a hunch, fingers dragging themselves over his face.

_Thousands dead — criminals and innocents. Men killed because they were_ in the way _. Hatori. Heart attacks, accidents, illnesses — he had a wife and children. He was a person, he had a life ahead of him. And for what was he killed? Why? He was scared. He was scared._

The thoughts had been repeated hundreds, thousands of time, but each word still hit like a fresh realization. His breathing was coming in gasps now. Shimura’s hands pressed harder against his face, one shifting down briefly for him to chew at his nails. It returned; the motions were unsteady, unplanned, a desperate attempt to do something, _anything_ with himself. His tongue ran anxiously over his lips; his throat ached.

_You let it happen. You knew what was happening — you could have stopped it. There must have been something. Why did you wait so long? Coward._

A sob tore its way out of his throat, a caged animal ripping its way out into the wild after agonizing months of confinement. The force of it almost surprised him — _would_ have, if his mind hadn’t found itself a far away place to lock itself for the time being. A shuddering breath inward; his shoulders were trembling. More sobbing.

_Too scared. Too fucking scared to even try — too caught up worrying about your_ own _life. As if it_ mattered _— as if this wouldn’t destroy what was left of it. As if it was worth what was lost. Thousands dead. Hatori Arayoshi. He wasn’t a bad man. He was just a person — you_ liked _him. Had a wife and kids. Dead. You let it happen!_

A hand rested on his shoulder.

Another sob, this one the loudest yet, almost a wail. Shimura was shaking all over, sides heaving; he felt ill. Wide eyes shifted to his companion. They were blurry with tears.

Maybe bringing Takahashi with him had been a mistake; Shimura had never intended to bring the man into his personal drama, not when he had enough issues already. A divorce on his hands, a sudden chasm splitting him from dozens of friends and family and acquaintances from outside work — people who would never understand the change that had suddenly taken hold of him, the haunted look to his eyes, the faltering quiet to his voice, the apparent inability to laugh (at least, _genuinely_ ). He had more than enough on his plate. This was not his battle to fight, but no matter how hard he tried, Shimura couldn’t have found the will within himself to accompany Namikawa _alone_. Not _Namikawa_ , of all people, in all his cold indifference to the suffering they had wrought on others, in the smugly dismissive way he accepted its _benefits_. Not Namikawa, who served as a cruel reminder, more than any of the other unfortunate survivors, of Shimura’s own shortcomings. Not Namikawa, who seemed so _set_ on forming some sort of odd companionship with him.

(Maybe he thought he was being _subtle_ about his intentions, but Shimura knew them in full. There wasn’t a person on the planet who didn’t have cellophane skin to him.)

Shimura could not have faced him alone, but Takahashi didn’t deserve to get involved. He didn’t deserve to watch helplessly as his companion hit his breaking point, rose from his seat in a flurry of emotion and spouted accusations and grievances at their coworker until his throat was hoarse, grabbed the man’s shirt collar and shook it in uncharacteristic fury, came within an inch of beating him down. He didn’t deserve to be sitting in the passenger seat of a car stopped in an abandoned lot, faced with a man just as broken as he was who was doubled over himself, sobbing and shaking with the weight of sins he hadn’t committed but had _allowed_.

If Takahashi _realized_ he didn’t deserve it, it didn’t show.

Gradually, Shimura’s cries slowed to whimpers and the odd gasp. His hands frantically scrubbed at his eyes, smearing his face with tears as he shifted his attention to the other man. Takahashi’s hand was still on his shoulder; their eyes met. A jumble of emotions were spread over his face — confusion and mourning and awe and guilt and shock and sympathy and something like _respect_ — but there was no anger.

Now that the adrenaline of the moment had passed and he wasn’t actively bawling his eyes out, Shimura found himself at a loss for words. What was there to be said? Takahashi knew it all already; they _both_ knew. Enough messages, spoken and otherwise, had been passed between them since the undoing of their captor; a silent, mutual understanding hung in the air. Briefly, he opened his mouth to speak — _what’s the point?_ — and closed it again.

His hands briefly clenched, and in a single, unbroken motion, Shimura slung his arms around the other man in the closest thing to a _hug_ they could manage while sitting adjacent to each other in the front of a car. It was a purely impulsive move, and they were hardly in the best positions for it, but upon contact Shimura realized just how _relieved_ he felt. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d received or given any sort of _intimacy_ , even to a small extent, and he couldn’t imagine Takahashi was much better off — not since their shared ordeal. More than anything, the knowledge that his companion _understood_ , was sympathetic, cared at _all_ , was the most comfort he’d felt in a very long time.

For a beat, Takahashi didn’t move; then the surprise that had rendered him still faded and he shifted to reciprocate, broad, rough hands pressing securely to the small of his back. Shimura sniffled a final time, fists clenching at the fabric of Takahashi’s shirt. His eyes closed. There was silence for some unmeasured stretch of time — neither of them were counting. Then the silence broke.

“It … it isn’t your fault, Shimura.” 

The words came as a surprise; Shimura opened his eyes, but stayed in place.

“I mean, I don’t think it is,” Takahashi stammered out hurriedly, momentarily backpedalling at his companion’s silence. His voice was quieter than it had once been, more ashamed. “For … well, for whatever it’s worth. N-Not much, I guess. I’m sorry. But, there wasn’t really … anything you could’ve done, really. W-Well, maybe there was, but — fuck, I’m sorry — there wasn’t anything you could have been _expected_ to do. Sorry, I guess that doesn’t really make sense. I mean, m-most people would’ve been too scared to do anything at all. I was. … We all were. I guess I don’t speak for the others, but I-I think you know what I mean. Honestly, I don’t think there are many people who would’ve been prepared to do what you tried to do, ever. You tried your best. I-I really, really think you did. You’re the best out of all of us, and I … I’m sorry that you blame yourself. I wish you didn’t.”

A flurry of responses forced their way through Shimura’s head — denials, arguments, self-derision of all shades and forms — none of which made their way to his mouth. He was too tired to put up a fight against the other’s mans apologetic attempts at consoling him — attempts that, despite their creator’s self-conscious attitude, had done better than anything _else_ had for the past few months. Instead, he managed a quiet, “You don’t have to apologize to me.”

Takahashi seemed like he was going to respond, but didn’t. Louder, less shakily, Shimura added, “I know what … what some of the _others_ have said, b-but to hell with them, okay? To _hell_ with them. To hell with Higuchi. He was wrong. You’re not an idiot. You’ve got to stop … _talking_ like you think he was right. He wasn’t. You don’t have to apologize to me. Please.”

Takahashi’s grip tightened for a few seconds, and then it was gone. Slowly, reluctantly, they both pulled away; Shimura was sitting a bit straighter now, breathing having steadied itself out. His gaze moved to the other man; Takahashi swallowed thickly, rubbing hastily at his eyes.

He cleared his throat. “I’m s— I-I mean. Thanks.”

“It’s fine.” Shimura’s hands ran briefly through black hair that he'd managed, at some point that evening, to mess up, and he sighed roughly, sparing a glance to his watch. “Getting late, though. I’m sorry, I … I didn’t mean to keep you out this long. I’ll take you home.”

“ _Don’t_.” The response was quick, frantic; realizing that he was the subject of attention once more, Takahashi’s face reddened slightly. “I-I mean, I appreciate it, but… Well. Haru’s at a friend’s house tonight. I don’t need to worry about what she’ll think if I’m … not home. A-And I don’t think I can face Hitomi right now. Y-You can just d-drop me off at a hotel or something, I don’t know — ”

“Takahashi,” Shimura cut him off, raising a hand for silence. “It’s okay. You stayed with me this long; I’m not planning on _abandoning_ you somewhere without a ride. Don’t tell me you’ll call a taxi in the morning. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of space at home — hell, take the bed, if you want. I don’t care. Besides, you haven’t eaten.”

“I-I couldn’t just — ”

“ _Takahashi_. Please. Just for tonight.”

“… Right. Alright, fine. Okay. If you insist,” Takahashi conceded. A pause. “And, uh. Thanks. A lot.”

“Hey, it’s really not a problem. I could use the company, anyways. Just … just give me a second, okay? I’ll be alright.”

They were both silent. Shimura checked his breathing, ran his hands over his face a final time, rubbed the last remains of tears from his eyes. Quietly, almost to himself, he muttered, “Maybe Hatori is better off, wherever he is.” 

Laughter, bitter and hollow and uncharacteristic. It went unreturned; his companion was silent.

A few minutes later, buildings and streetlights passing like ships in the night, Takahashi murmured, “He doesn’t have to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> i spend way too much time thinking abt these eight shitty assholes. shim's a good boy, though. he doesn't deserve this. honestly, though, a lot of them don't. 
> 
> haru is takahashi's daughter (i put her at ~11 during canon) and hitomi is his wife. i don't remember where haru's name is from, but hitomi's is from the character in the lctw novel. the fic is named after the smiths song, bc it's fitting, i listened to it while editing, and i hc them as shim's favorite band.


End file.
